


To Hear His Voice Again

by Write_and_Wrong



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BDSM, Cannon Divergence, Collars, Dark, Difficult Relationship, Dorian's lack of proper coping mechanisms, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Halward Pavus's A+ Parenting, Kidnapping, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rescue Missions, Seriously this is a dark fic, The noncon is NOT with Bull, Though he is actually likeable in this fic, quite the opposite
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-04 10:08:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 15,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4133547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_and_Wrong/pseuds/Write_and_Wrong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisitor sides with the Templars but Dorian never makes it to Haven, having been captured by Venatori in the attempt. Halward, desperate, reaches out to the Inquisition to find his son. They succeed in finding the missing mage but these things take time; by the time they get to Dorian he's been tortured and used and is hardly recognizable as the gleaming, confident mage he'd been before.</p><p>Halward stays with the Inquisition to fulfill his debt. Dorian, who is supposed to be recovering, instead begins to self-destruct.</p><p>((If you wish to skip the bits that detail the stuff that breaks Dorian, start at chap 10))</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tevinterhexe (ilikemyscars)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=tevinterhexe+%28ilikemyscars%29).



> For a DAKM prompt from the most supportive and patient OP ever!!
> 
> http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/13429.html?thread=51811957#t51811957 (Captcha is screwed and now I have to out myself so I can keep pressing on with this monster)
> 
>  **Trigger Warning** Seriously if you are squicked by abuse, please do not read this. I will make it up to Dorian in the long run but this is not going to be an easy trek for the Scion of House Pavus.

_Lord Inquisitor~_

_It is with great trepidation that I implore for the Inquisition's aid. First and foremost I offer my deepest condolences for what transpired at Haven, though I knew nothing of the occurrence until it was too late. That my misguided brethren would shame our nation by leading the Southern mages into revolt is disgusting, and for the Inquisition and countless others to have suffered for it, all the worse. There is nothing to be gained but chaos by following the path of destruction they have wrought. It benefits no one; on this, we are of one mind._

_It is not without correlation that Haven's name arises. My son and heir Dorian attempted to reach the Inquisition ahead of the mage rebellion's attack to give warning, at clear peril to himself. He has since gone missing. We expect he was captured by the Venatori but have received no word of a ransom request. The implications of his death do not bode well for my house and I will go to great lengths to make certain he is returned to us whole. I am at my wit's end out of concern for my boy._

_The plight of a single mage, let alone one of Tevinter origin, may seem slight in a time of war, but I believe my friendship may prove beneficial if the Inquisition would deign to assist me in rescuing Dorian. I continue my journey south regardless but I hope we may reach an understanding._

_I await your response~_

_With Deepest Regards,  
Magister Halward Pavus of Qarinus and Asariel_

 

"He has good spies," Leliana murmured as the Inquisitor finished reading, arms folded. "He's also not incorrect. I have gotten sparse reports from my agents on the Venatori camps as they moved from the area, but there was indeed one report that mentioned a captive."

"A hostage?" Trevelyan asked. The spymaster's frown deepened.

"A plaything." She nodded at his scowl. "I doubt any of the mages took kindly to a traitor against their cause. Since he is both Tevinter and mage, the affront would be twofold. From what we saw at Haven the southern mages are nearly mindless, but their Venatori commanders are not."

"Dorian Pavus may have some worth as a bargaining chip, if this letter is any tell. That's likely why they are keeping him alive, if it's him." Trevelyan tapped a finger against the tabletop as he pondered. "I am not sure it is worth risking our people to rescue a single mage, however, noble or not."

"Perhaps, perhaps not," Leliana said. "I say we reply and see what the magister suggests. Lord Pavus clearly has good informants to have gotten word so quickly. It would also not hurt to have a friend in the Imperium should we prove successful." Trevelyan nodded.

"-and if it is a trap, we kill him. Simple. I'll request he come in person. If he does, we will see what can be done. If he doesn't, we will likely have to leave Dorian to his fate."

 

That was how, some weeks later, the horns sounded and a shimmering carriage draped in black-and-gold Tevinter livery came rolling into Skyhold flanked by a dozen well-armed soldiers on horseback. Their armor was good quality, clearly cared for, though they bore the look of hard riding, mounts and carriage both streaked with mud from the road. Trevelyan came out to meet them personally, flanked by Josephine, Cullen, and the Bull.

Halward Pavus stepped down out of the carriage, skin far too bronze to be at home in the frigid south. His black, gilded robes hung just slightly looser on them than their fine tailoring should have allowed; the dark shadows haunting his sharp, grey-green eyes were marked. Together they wove a story that reaffirmed what the Inquisitor had read in his note: of meals missed, of sleep lost. He had said he was a man deeply concerned over the loss of his son and he looked it.

"Looks awfully worn, boss," Bull muttered quietly in his ear before Halward drew closer. The Inquisitor nodded. The tells weren't likely to be faked.

As the regal man drew nearer Trevelyan stepped forward to shake his hand. To his shock, Halward tucked an arm across his torso and one behind his back and bowed, deeply, as did his retainer behind him.

"My Lord Inquisitor," he began. His voice was slightly rough yet rang out clear as bell in the cool air of the courtyard. When he straightened, his eyes were on the Inquisitor's and the Inquisitor's alone. Questioning but regal, chin held high, and while Halward was desperate he was clearly a man who knew his station in life. Cullen's rigid posture beside him was proof enough that the man was a powerful mage in addition to being a formidable politician.

"Magister Pavus," Trevelyan inclined his head, taking the man's hand afterward when it was offered. His grip was strong, the hands calloused. _Not an easy ride south, then,_ the Inquisitor noted, seeing the staff strapped to the magister's back. _Especially not if he had it on him while in the carriage._ "Come inside," he said aloud, getting right to the point. "My men will see to it that yours get fed, and their mounts stabled. We can grab something to eat and talk about getting your son back."

"Your hospitality is most appreciated," the Tevinter replied, inclining his head again. 

"Not an easy trip, then?" The magister's eyes were dark even as a sardonic smile twisted his lips.

"Not given the stakes, no. Frequent battles and more frequent hazards. There are far more numerous miscreants on the roads than strictly necessary, certainly, even for war time." He made a sound of disdain, an irate turn to his tone as he added: "Rather uncalled for." Trevelyan chuckled; the dry, humorless comment settled easily with him. _No political frippery. Good._

"We are doing our best to weed out the miscreants, believe me. Let's see if we can't do something about that together, shall we?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian's countrymen do not look kindly on traitors

_~Two Months Earlier..._

The wagon was essentially a metal cage set on a wooden slab base, the squared bars covered by an old linen tarp. It was dragged along by some odoriferous beast and rolled like it was made poorly, all bumping and jarring and painful discomfort for the sole occupant it carried. 

Dorian of House Pavus was cold, sore, and exhausted, the thin blanket they'd given him doing little to keep any semblance of warmth for him to benefit from. He was bound, collared, and barely conscious thanks to the gentle ministrations of his countrymen, none of whom looked kindly on his treason. 

It had only been _attempted_ treason at that, as he had failed. The Venatori had captured him long before he'd made it to Haven to warn the Inquisition, though he had tried desperately and killed many of them in the process.

They'd beaten him a dozen times if they'd beaten him once, a cycle of fists and kicking and slamming him into things that he had blearily lost track of, up until they'd forced four healing draughts down his throat and started again. The soldiers had started off demanding to know what he knew, what he was doing, who he was, whom he was working for. Dorian had given them nothing but witty quips and silence and his northern brethren had given him pain in response. When he didn't talk, they took to starving him; he was only still alive because he'd been forced to eat and drink enough to keep breathing.  
_____________________________

They'd stopped hitting him, for the most part, if only because 'the magister will be angry if you mess up his face,' or so he'd overheard. He'd been their prisoner for...two weeks? Three? Dorian couldn't remember anything beyond the ache in his body, the dull throb of hunger, and kicking himself for coming south thinking he could actually make a difference. Even his glibness had long since gone quiet in the face of the endless hours shivering away in his cell-on-wheels.

It was late one evening after they'd stopped to make camp that things grew worse.

Dorian was dragged from his restless dozing by the sound of the tarp pulling back and the metal door creaking open. Shivering like a thing possessed, he raised his head a bit, hair disheveled and makeup long since gone, to see one of the Venatori soldiers climbing into his cage.

"I'll keep you warm," the soldier sneered; Dorian, horrified, realized he was missing at _least_ five of his teeth. The wiry man's grin widened as he saw the disdain in the Altus's face and chuckling darkly, he pulled the door closed behind him. The mage backed away as far as he could (not far at all, considering) and drew his bound hands in front of him. His back was pressed to the cold lattice of the metal cage but he refused to cower, trying to get his feet. "Now now, no need to be standoffish." 

The man was upon him before Dorian could drag himself upright; an inelegantly thrown fist rammed his head into a metal bar. Gasping a curse the mage could do little to stop his body crashing into the wooden frame below. Dorian fell hard and didn't catch himself, dehydration and hunger and sleeplessness a trifecta of obstacles too steep to overcome. It was dark under the tarp covering the wagon but it was darker still in his thoughts as he pondered where the encounter was going. Nowhere positive, of that he was certain, and distantly the mage wished for the beatings instead.

Strong hands on his tied wrists forced Dorian to arch his back then, spine forced to curve as his arms were pulled over his head and down. Something secured them to the metal lattice behind him and then he was trapped like that, stuck with his elbows up by his ears. Muscles grown weak flexed and strained and accomplished nothing other than spurring on his aggressor, judging by the rumbling noise echoing up from the other man's throat.

"Shhhh lovely, I'll take care of you." The man leaned in, pinning the captive mage's right side with his weight, draping his leg between Dorian's. The 'vint writhed more voraciously, disgusted by grubby hands pawing at his clothing. There was no illusion of intimacy, nothing but the prodding and yanking at his armor. By merit of small blessings the buckles and ties on the complex leathers stymied the grunt and for whatever reason the man seemed unwilling to destroy Dorian's clothes.

It proved a small consolation indeed as the man pressed in closer. The soldier's cock was hard against Dorian's thigh; the man began to rut against him, panting stale breath in the breezeless air as he pushed faster, delighting in the friction and the struggling flesh beneath him. His hardness ground against the curve of Dorian's hip and the soldier groaned in his ear, hands wandering all over Dorian's chest, rubbing small circles on his side as though trying to make the intrusion _pleasurable_. The mage wretched at the thought, gagging. 

"None of that," the soldier growled and dragged Dorian's chin towards him to force a sloppy kiss. He didn't last beyond that, shuddering as he spent himself in his breeches. He laid heavily on Dorian for what felt like an age after he finished, the captive trying ceaselessly to wriggle out from under the unwanted embrace. "Next time we'll see what other fun we can have," the man muttered in the mage's ear, running his hand suggestively over the private area between Dorian's thighs. The soldier's laugh was short and biting as he left the cage, leering as the younger man shuddered.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A familiar face is both a blessing and a curse

Dorian had fully expected to be killed when he failed to reach Haven to warn the Inquisition. After having awoken as a captive of the Ventori, he'd half-expected they were going to torture him for being a traitor.

It was one of the rare times he'd ever lamented being right. _There aren't too many scars,_ he thought, though he can't see his back and he knew some of the lash welts festered before they were cleaned. The memory of those several days made him sick still so the mage didn't think about it much. Least of all when some of those very moments of his history were repeating themselves: sometimes verbatim, sometimes with new horrors he hadn't been subjected to. His countrymen--along with a few of their acquired Southern mages--were actually far, far worse than he'd given them credit for.  
________________________

The wind whipped the tarp over his rolling cage fiercely and the canvas cracked like a whip along the metal bars. The sound was over-loud and cacophonous, echoing and painful in his head, because Dorian had a concussion, you see. A bad one, too, one that made standing impossible (not that he had the strength for it anyhow) and each bump in the trail a jolting, vengeful thing.  
His stomach wretched in nausea but also in emptiness, clenching on itself even as he swallowed bile down. He didn't know the last time he had eaten or truly slept. _Hours? Days?_ There was no telling, much like there was no telling what was going to happen every time someone dragged the door of that miserable cage open.  
________________________

Several weeks into his captivity Dorian passed out at the receiving end of a soldier's fist and woke up in what appeared to be a jail cell, or what passed for one in whatever backwards southern nation he was in. It was sparsely furnished--he had a blanket on the floor, a bucket, and not much else--and like seemingly everywhere else in the south, it was freezing. There were barely three cells in the dimly lit hallway, one on each side and one at the end of the hall, and in the one across from him was a hunched form in battered, familiar livery. The shaved hair had grown out somewhat but there was no mistaking--

"No...Felix?" Even as he struggled to stand Dorian's heart sank low into his chest, the feeling weighted with the heaviness of lead but tainted with something far more toxic. The familiar figure stood and came to the bars, a smile that was more laden with sadness than mirth. Felix's color was all wrong, his cheekbones far too prominent. His face was free of bruising, though, which was more than Pavus could say, and he was sure his friend would have looked better than Dorian had he not been dying of the Blight.

"I guess this means you didn't make it," the younger Alexius remarked quietly.

"Correct," Dorian answered and though he'd known that for weeks, felt it in every sting and burn and unwanted touch, saying it out loud to the only true friend he'd ever had made it so much worse somehow. "...I didn't make it."

_____________________________

They didn't address the elephant in the room for the first several days. Blessedly, their keepers left them alone most of the time, still awaiting the arrival of one of their leaders.

"So after I left Redcliffe, the Venatori took you?"

"Yes. Father's...I am not certain he's alive, Dorian." As was his norm now, Felix sounded resigned. There was a heavy acceptance in his voice that was discordant with everything Dorian knew of the man. "He was not able to do what the Venatori wanted, I know. Beyond that..."

"Why haven't they killed you?" _Or me?_ The words were out of his mouth before he could help it. It was selfish, he knew, but he had already _tried_ being selfless and look where it had gotten him. Felix, eyes too dark and skin too loose, just shrugged. 

"Guess they don't see the point in wasting valuable mana finishing a job the Blight is already doing for them."

"So we remain their playthings indefinitely?" Dorian wished there hadn't been a note of fear in his voice. He could take the beatings, had taken them, but the idea of nothing beyond that for the rest of his life, however long or short that may be...it made him ache for his magic, his freedom, and a time when seeing Felix's face hadn't made him cringe under a flood of worthlessness.

"I worry for you more than me, Dorian. It..." _won't be long now._ Felix didn't say it. Dorian didn't need him to. The understanding hung between them, a resolute promise neither wished to see bear fruit.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magisters have long, bitter memories

The errant magister of course turned out to be a man Dorian had personally embarrassed in front of the entire Circle at Vyrantium, (at the tender age of 16 no less) and though his hair had grown longer and his robes quite a lot tighter, Pavus recognized him the moment he saw him. Livius Erimond was still dark haired and sallow-skinned, moving with a sort of forced poise that was far beyond his skill and fashion sense to make good on. He had moved on to Minrathous not long after the younger Altus had upstaged him but his face, too, lit with unkind recognition when he took in Dorian and Felix.

"My my, what an interesting turn of events." Erimond ignored Felix completely; his dark eyes appraised Dorian's battered form as his lips twisted in an unkind smile. "Dorian Pavus, what a delightfully dreadful pleasure. I would compliment your dashing good looks but it seems you're rather out of sorts. Pity."

"As you said, Livius," Dorian responded, his voice as forcibly light as he could manage from his seat on the floor, "I am indeed 'out of sorts.' The reception has been most sub-par, you see." 

Erimond bared his teeth in a widening grin that knew nothing of kindness, a malignant, unspoken promise that twisted Dorian's insides. He was no coward but the look he received spoke of nothing but torment. When the magister spoke again it was over his shoulder to two men who were, from appearances, his servants. One was a small, mousy elf with blonde hair; the other was a huge beast of a man in traditional Tevinter armor.

"What a wondrous gift to come across--truly the Elder One has smiled upon my good fortune. Errel, be a dear and find clean vestments for this boy, would you? He will make a most welcome colleague in this land of southern heathens. Steward, if you will be so kind as to escort Messere Pavus to the former mayor's estate? I shall be using his lodgings as my own."

"Oh, are we to discuss the state of things in the Magisterium? Perhaps argue the theology of heretic cultists bent on reforming our homeland in blood and glory? I am afraid to admit I may not be of much use on such topics," the mage snapped as Livius hauled him to his feet.

"Oh, I have a use for you, Dorian Pavus," Erimond's fingers laced into Dorian's hair, dragging it back until he had the younger mage's throat bared and his teeth clenched, "-and it involves nothing so blase as politics." His right hand kept its vice-lock on Dorian's black locks while his left wandered blatantly down his torso, fingers trailing across one slim hip to settle elsewhere. Livius's breath was hot in his captive's ear. "I have business for my master in the west but I see no reason that some frivolity in the short term would be remiss." His wayward hand found Dorian's crotch; the magister frowned when the younger mage had the indecency to buck and thrash.

"Get your filthy hands off of me," Pavus hissed, incensed. His bark far outweighed his bite just then and they both knew it.

"Such hostility!" Erimond chuckled, leaning in to nip at the expanse of smooth, caramel colored skin visible above the magic-stifling collar. The armored man's powerful hands gripped Dorian's wrists so he could no longer thrash. "Come now," Livius dropped his voice to a low purr, "-I know of your inclinations. Everyone in Vyrantium does," Dorian tried again to wrestle free and failed miserably. The man at his ear went on. "Delivered to the Circle from the vestiges of sin by Magister Alexius himself. Do not pretend you do not enjoy this, little whore."

Dorian winced at the slur but stood his ground. "I enjoy nothing about being held captive by power-hungry fools." Erimond shook him for that, the mirth fading from his voice. 

"We shall see about that. Steward," the hulking brute in Venatori armor nodded, awaiting an order. "Escort young master Pavus to my quarters. See that he is...suitably prepared." The huge hands locked around Dorian's upper arm, dragging him from the cell. He plastered a smile on as he passed Felix, trying not to notice the stricken look on his friend's face.

Dorian was forcibly dragged down a dirt street to the largest house in sight, a two-story that was clearly exciting architecture for a small farming village. Steward did not look at him, did not even really seem to _see_ him, until they'd ascended the stairs and Dorian had been shoved into a large bedroom. The mage whirled only to get a faceful of metal as Steward cuffed him about the head and knocked him down. Heavy weight pinioned Dorian to the ground as the Venatori straddled his back, tying his hands behind him and his ankles together. Livius took that moment to sweep into the room, sliding the bolt home behind him.

"Ah, well done Steward. Put the ring in, won't you?" Dorian still tried to fight, even shaking as he was. It did him no good. As he struggled with the guard Erimond moved past them both, neatly removing his robes and leggings and folding them. He climbed onto the bed nude, propping pillows behind his back to get comfortable while his assistant took care of the more strenuous work. Dread unfurled in Dorian's stomach and even though he was tied, he tried to roll onto his side and away.

Steward's bulk surged for the fleeing mage and a hard punch to the side later, Dorian gasped and immediately choked as a metal ring was forced into his mouth and held there by a tight cord tied round his head. Realization stole the breath from his lungs as he realized what the device was there to do.

Before he really had fully processed what was happening Dorian was shoved up onto the mattress and forced to kneel with his face aimed between the magister's pale legs. A hand hooked into his collar kept him in place as Erimond, palming himself to hardness, smiled at Dorian as though they were about to discuss magical theory in the Circle. Nothing strange, here, no--completely normal day for a filthy magister, his elbow propped on his rounded belly. It was not a breath later and he'd shoved the younger man's head down into the juncture between his thighs, sliding his cock through the ring gag and into Dorian's mouth.

Dorian tried to pull back and force the organ out but the heavy grip on his collar and hair was too much; the metal ring and Livius's hands kept him from biting, fighting, or fleeing. Erimond's member engorged in Dorian's warm wetness, shoved deeper with each motion, slow and rhythmic. The clenching of the mage's throat as his gag reflex fired was a most welcome caress for his attacker.

"A much better use of your tongue, don't you agree?" Livius smiled, bucking his hips up and gagging Dorian with his cock. The magister was plumped to full size in a scant few moments but kept pumping away, dragging his captive down onto his member _dozens_ more times just for the deliciousness of it. He forced himself in fully, Dorian's nose flush against the dark curls at his base, and simply held, his member cutting off all the air supply to the younger man. Dorian thrashed as hard as he could to pull in a breath and did so desperately as Livius drew back to free his airway. It lasted but a breath before the magister resumed his slow, tortuous thrusting, Dorian's spit running down his captor's length in rivulets.

A heavy knock on the door halted Erimond mid-thrust and he sighed the heavily beleaguered sound of a man put upon. Forcing his cock back inside Dorian and holding the other mage flush to his pelvis again he called out,

"Yes, what is it?"

"Urgent missive for you sir, from Lady Calpernia." a soldier called in through the door. Erimond sighed again, dragging Dorian off of him and forcing their eyes to meet as he kept his grip on Pavus's hair.

"Pity. We shall have to save further festivities for a later hour, hmm?" The look on the greasy man's face surged bile into Dorian's throat. "Steward, return him to the cell. I will fetch him later."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Erimond is an unrepentant dickbag and it goes downhill from there...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Another trigger warning. Here be non-con, caveat emptor!**

Steward carried Dorian back to the jail exactly as Erimond had left him--bound hand and foot and still gagged--dropped him rather unceremoniously on the mat, and turned for the door.

"You cannot leave him like that." Felix was at the bars on his cell, expression twisted in anger. Steward's face was not visible behind the plate helmet he wore. It appeared he was listening, however, as he stalled at the entrance of Dorian's cell, glancing between the two Altus mages--Felix glaring at him, Dorian cringing in on himself, eyes set firmly on the floor. "Your master is not the type to share," the younger Alexius added quietly, venomously. "You are leaving an open invitation to the soldiers that I doubt he will appreciate." The brute stood still for another long moment before exiting the cell with the slightest of nods; as he left the building, the two heard the exterior door's lock slide home. Their jailors had never bothered to lock that door before.

Dorian made a piteous noise in thanks of the small reprieve, the best he could manage with the metal ring in between his teeth. His jaw ached, sending sharp, lancing bolts of discomfort that spiked into his skull and neck muscles each time that he twitched. He did not, could not, see Felix, and for that he was thankful--he did not need to see his oldest friend to know that he would find pity and anger, among other things, in his expression. 

There was a heavy silence for awhile. Then, because he imagined his friend was as lost as he himself, Felix started to talk.

He spoke first of blasé things: people they had known in the circle, acquaintances from activities they'd attended jointly for several years, magisters of note. He detailed some of the theses he'd been in audience for, prattling about the magical theory and the relative uselessness of some of the less inspired projects. When he ran out of vanilla topics Felix talked about the Venatori, about everything he'd seen and heard during his time as their colleague and later, as their captive. He spoke of the Elder One, telling the other mage everything he knew and had guessed, speculating and proffering ideas he had never managed to test.

It was a litany of sorts, a ramble for Dorian's benefit, so he had something besides the scene in the bedroom to focus on. Felix talked for hours 'til his voice cracked and fell quiet with exhaustion.

Dorian couldn't thank him.  
________________________

"Goodness, my manners are simply _atrocious_." Felix and Dorian both winced at the decibel level of Erimond's entrance, jarring in the thick silence of the jail. "I imagine it was terrible, having to wait in such dire anticipation. I thought it only right that I come down to fetch you personally." Dorian kept his eyes on the wall as his cell door creaked open. Livius gave Felix a small bow. "Do forgive me ser but Dorian and I have a bit of an engagement to get to."

"Leave him be, Livius," Felix said it quietly, a request he knew would not be headed. Indeed, the magister's laugh was scathing as behind him, Steward gathered Dorian's thrashing form into his arms. Erimond leaned in close to the bars to make certain the sickened man could see his smile.

"Wherever would the fun be in that?"  
_________________________

"See? That's much bet---stop _thrashing_ , damn it." Hands fisted into his hair tore painfully at his scalp as Dorian tried again to pull away. The floorboards dug into his knees and his neck and back both ached, strained from struggling; Erimond's cock was in his mouth, thrusting in deep past his lips. Every time the magister's blunt head pressed against his throat Dorian gagged, and not just from reflex. The act of being bound and debased like this was worse-- _so much worse_ \--than even the men back in Tevinter who had used him, had spat on him after a quick tryst in a hall or closet as though they were better than him. Every sense was tainted with it. Bile burned ever-present in his throat. The musky smell wafting from between Erimond's legs was seared permanently into his nostrils; the taste of the magister's precum was bitter on his tongue.

"Starting to accept it?" Livius questioned, brokering no room for argument as he increased his speed, forcing Dorian's head to bob more quickly, his throat to take the intrusion more deeply. A breathy moan escaped Erimond's lips as he leaned forward in the chair, fucking into his captive's mouth; his control slipped as his orgasm crested. Dorian was forced to take down every drop, shaking and retching and choking at the lack of air. 

Strong arms closed around him from behind and as Dorian was lifted, he saw Livius recline into the armchair with a satisfied smirk. A cloth pressed over his mouth and nose, the scent of flowers and something else making his eyesight blur.

"I think a catnap is in order. When you wake up we'll make better use of that body you're so proud of, hmm?"  
_____________________

Dorian woke some time later, face down on a bed covered in scratchy, pale sheets. He knew it had not been long; he tasted Erimond in his mouth so strongly he retched. As he came back into consciousness more fully, panic lanced his insides at the way he'd been positioned: his wrists were bound together above him and tethered to the headboard and his legs were spread wide, each tied by the ankle to one of the posts. The air was cool on his skin and someone had stripped him to his smallclothes, leaving nothing else. He found he could rise to his knees just slightly, enough for-- _no._ The mage started thrashing in earnest, driving the cords deeper into his flesh, deep enough to cut. He fought and yanked and twisted and pulled, joints aching and blood running down his arms in small crimson rivulets. No amount of struggling gained him any freedom of movement at all. Dorian choked back a sob.

"My my," Erimond's voice was smooth, velvet dipped in poison, "you are _exquisite_ despite your foul temperament." Dorian swallowed the sounds welling up from his chest. He hadn't known the magister was in the room and couldn't see the man--a small blessing, frankly--but that reprieve quickly faded as a cool hand settled on his calf, making full contact as it swept up his naked thigh. "It is no wonder Gereon took you as his apprentice." The hand found one supple, round arse cheek and patted it, _caressed_ it, stroking over the material of the worn garment still covering the smooth skin beneath. Dorian shuddered at the false gentleness of the touch. "I wonder if he took you other ways as well." Pavus could not help the small noise that escaped him as Erimond tore his underclothes off with one forceful, unceremonious yank. The magister uttered an appreciative noise. "Seems likely, given the quality of the view. I suppose some of that arrogance of yours was well-served. ...Hmm. I do wonder if the soldiers ruined you, getting you here. I suppose I shall have to check."

The bound mage didn't have time to fret. The bed bowed under the extra weight and then Livius's hands were on him, one palm on each cheek, spreading Dorian open. Erimond made an interested hum and just as suddenly one thumb was circling the tight ring of muscle of Dorian's entry, pressing hard but not quite hard enough to breach. Pavus bit his lip, disgusted, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. His heartbeat had long since taken to hammering in his ears, a racing _thrum thrum thrum_ as though he were gearing up to duel someone. Erimond understood and delighted in Dorian's dismay, apparently, because he laughed.

"Come now, do be honest," the magister demanded, raising his voice over Dorian's keening choke as he shoved his thumb in dry. He began to thrust in and out, up to his knuckle. His captive thrashed against the sheets beneath him seeking relief from the fierce, dry burn. "You do wish me to prepare you beforehand, no? I can't have you becoming injured." The sick amusement in his tone made seeing the smile on Livius's face unnecessary. 

"F-fuck you," Dorian snarled, thrashing more violently again. He flinched as a dollop of cold oil slithered down between his cheeks; Erimond caught it, dipping his fingers, removing his thumb in favor of crooking in an index finger instead. He tugged and teased, not the least bit kind, working the younger man open as he writhed to escape the intrusion. A second finger joined the first, pushing against muscle that didn't want to relax.

"Now now, stop being obdurate." The pads of Erimond's fingers slid over a sensitive spot inside Dorian, a jolt of pleasure he resisted forcing a small moan from his lips. Livius's full-throated laugh made Dorian cringe. "Ahh, there is the truth of it. Almost like you were born and bred to be a filthy catamite." 

"As _you_ were, to be a hypocrite," the younger man snarled.

"Hardly." The man inched up the bed. "You are a pleasure slave now, an instrument to do with what I choose. A fitting place for you, given how much you pride yourself on your looks. You know that it does not matter that you're a man. You're a _toy_ , an object for my amusement." Erimond groaned as he pressed himself up against Dorian's entrance; he dug into the other man's hips to keep him still as he forced himself inside, reveling at the tightness clenched around his member.

"It's a shame there's no one I care to indulge," Livius murmured, burying himself to the hilt in Dorian, fingers clutching bruises on dark flesh as Pavus wailed. "A second partner would give that mouth of yours something to do while I fuck you." Erimond pulled back slowly and then slammed himself in again, cock throbbing at the second quiet cry his captive couldn't hold in. He repeated the movement once, then again; each time Dorian tried to clamp his mouth closed, keep the noises in, but much like the tears on his cheeks it was no use trying to hold back. His hands were white from bloodlessness, the cord around his wrists pulled taut as he tried to pull himself towards the headboard and away from Livius. The hands on his hips just dragged him back down as the magister picked up speed. 

"I rather like the sound of that, you know. Fucking you." _Slam_. "Best of both worlds, Pavus." _Slam_. "You get to live out every one of your naughty fantasies" _Slam_ "-without having to go to go to a slum in Minrathous to do it." _Slam_. "-and I get to wreck you without the finality of having to kill you to do it." He stopped talking as his breath stuttered, the same time his rhythm did. He seated himself completely, his orgasm cresting like a wave as the result flooded into Dorian's insides.

Dorian fought to the last, however pointless it proved to be. His body sagged against the mattress, sweat and tears soaking his face. Erimond withdrew and left the bed, trailing the back of one hand down Dorian's cheek. The younger mage did not unclench his eyes, nor his teeth, at the motion.

"You will not break me." It was quiet, almost a whisper pulled from raw vocal chords: a snarl, and a promise. As though there wasn't come dribbling out of him to stain the sheets beneath his spread thighs. Erimond laughed at him.

"We shall see."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Collars, blood magic, and group punishment. As previously mentioned, Erimond is an arsehole

It was a few days later when he was dragged back into the bedroom that Dorian was again proven right. This time, it was about not fully appreciating the depths of his countrymen's depravity and _Maker,_ he really must be getting daft from the lack of his magic.

Dorian had been fighting, railing against Steward's hold as he tried to pin the mage for Errel to shave his face. A blacked eye and a bleeding mouth later and the big brute had succeeded only in thrashing Dorian bloodier, not getting him clean as per his master's orders.

Erimond walked in looking unamused, clicking his tongue in irritation at his bed slave and placing a hand into one pocket. Icy dread locked Dorian's breath in his lungs as the magister dangled a bloodred pendant before him, his smile malicious. Dorian knew a focus when he saw one, even though they were technically forbidden, even though he had never used one himself. _When had they made it? **How** had they made it?_

" _Relax,_ " Livius commanded, voice heavy with magic and suggestion. The gem in his hand flared briefly as the spell activated; Dorian, tense as a bow pulled taut before, felt his muscles go limp at the order. The whimper of fear at being so hopelessly enthralled died in his throat. "Ahh, perfect. It's as I thought. We haven't the time nor the resources for a full blood thrall casting, but a simple one works just as well for basic compulsions," Erimond nodded, satisfied. "Errel. See that he is washed and groomed and call for me once you're finished."  
___________________

The new dampening collar Erimond had fitted him with was more permanent than the old one. It was a posture collar that covered most of his throat, requiring him to keep his head straight to breathe properly. It was black leather set with silver ringlets at the front, back, and sides-- _functional as well as stylish_ , the bastard had laughed--and was magically bound on him. He'd tried to find a seam when he'd bloodied his fingers trying to get the restrictive thing off and had found none.

The ankle and wrist cuffs matched in styling and color, three inches thick and possessing rings of their own. Erimond had wasted no time having Dorian bound with his new apparel and then whipped for trying to headbutt him during the process of fitting the new collar.

He had, of course, wasted even less time after _that_ bending Dorian over the side of the bed and fucking him raw, hands tied together and to his neck at the front. Pavus was unable to brace properly as he was railed into from behind, every wet smack of Livius's body into his wracking his knees against the bed frame. Another few landmarks of black and violet across a landscape already littered in similar markings.  
_____________________

Erimond had entered the jail mutely with Steward, pausing long enough inside Dorian's cell to force him to lie prone while he was stripped. The guard then dragged the mage into the middle of the jail floor in the dirt. They bound a pole behind his knees to spread them nice and wide and keep them that way, just like the cords threaded through silver rings kept his arms folded at the middle of his back. Dorian was left shivering and naked, proselytizing without recourse in the chill air for half an hour while Erimond made himself comfortable behind the old desk resting in the opposite corner. It was near silent during that entire time, the mood shifting when five of the Venatori soldiers walked in.

"You may each have a turn," Erimond explained, leaning back in a chair and crossing his legs at the ankle while across the room Dorian's eyes slammed shut, "-but do not damage him. He is your reward for faithful service--make sure to take _good_ care of him." The magister smiled at the look of horror on Felix's face, pulling the cork from a long-necked bottle. "It was you who hypothesized that I did not like to share, was it not? I, conversely, have always prided myself on being a generous man. We shall simply have to test the theory."

The first man jammed his cock so deep into Dorian's throat he couldn't make a sound beyond the sharp, muffled rasps as he gagged. It was almost better that way--Felix didn't have to listen to him screaming as man after man forced their way inside him from behind, come and sweat soaking his back, thighs, and face. It ran out of him, pooling on the stone floor; it ran down his chin, mixing with something worse when he literally couldn't stomach any more.

 

"...When you're right, you're right," Livius mentioned quietly when the soldiers had exhausted themselves, tipping his empty wine glass to Felix while Steward dropped Dorian in his cell. The mage curled up on the pallet and clutched the thin blankets around himself, shoulders heaving as he sobbed soundlessly. "I really _don't_ like sharing."  
________________

"You said he was to be a gift to the men, once his information was extracted." Dorian, bound up against the wall by his wrists, recognized the voice of one of the Venatori commanders that had captured him seething in the hallway. He shuddered at the memory, though he had several that were worse now to replace it.

"Yes. Well. No longer the case, I'm afraid." Erimond sounded dismissive, as though he were wasting his breath talking to a simpleton and not one of his colleagues.

"They won't be happy. You let them whet their appetites and then stole him away all to yourself."

"So it goes," Erimond replied. "You don't waste the expensive entrees on the house slaves, now do you? They'll survive. He is mine, and mine he shall remain." The door open and closed again and Dorian was left facing Livius. The older man looked at him, naked and spread-eagle against the paneled wall, and smiled viciously as he slid the bolt on the door home. "Mine alone indeed," he reiterated, assuming his place between Dorian's open thighs and hefting the mage up to waist height.

Erimond was a good deal stronger than he looked but then, it was possible Dorian had gotten lighter in the last several weeks as well.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erimond switches up his methods and Trevelyan gets a lead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chap 7 on here ends even with Chap 6 over on the DAKM, for anyone keeping score at home. **sigh**

Shortly thereafter Dorian was no longer returned the jail cell at all, kept trussed up in some form of bondage all day and night in the bedroom that had become his new prison. Errel cleaned him, fed him when Dorian refused to eat on his own, and prettied him up for Erimond's games. Steward bound him, beat him, positioned him however the magister commanded, always doing so with a blandness that made Dorian wonder if he was tranquil, or perhaps under thrall. Then the brute would help Livius do something unspeakable to him and he ceased to care. Whenever he fought the servants too hard or Erimond felt like drilling him for information, the pendant came out to leverage its influence, a constant reminder of his powerlessness against them. He didn't bother crying anymore. Tears seemed pointless when all they did was bring him more pain when his captors noticed. 

The only time he cried was when they left him alone, tied and tense and used, wondering if he should start begging for death soon and hoping Felix was alright.  
__________________ 

At one point Erimond starved him for three days. No food, barely any water. It wasn't because he was pushing his questioning, nor that Dorian was being punished for any particular offense (he'd been just as mouthy and unwilling as always, no more, no less). The entire time he'd kept Dorian bound in his bedroom, hands lashed together and fastened to one of the bed posts while Erimond himself sat at the desk and worked. 

Errel came in at intervals to wipe the young mage down with a cool cloth; after Dorian had gone a day or so with nothing, the elf brought him a ladle of water.

The magister had eventually caved, realizing with wide eyes that the younger man had been willing to die this way, fading away rather than submitting to Erimond's commands. He'd ordered Errel to untie him and had stormed off, annoyed.

Dorian decided he'd won that round, once he'd be able to stand again, and food stopped making him nauseous. How simple and pathetic 'victory' had become, these many weeks.  
_______________

Trevelyan sighed heavily, shoulders sagged inward in his weariness. The stack of reports before him was endless, growing ever larger in the lengthening shadows of a low-burnt candle. He raised his head from his hands as a soft knock preceded the door to his quarters swinging inward.

"Magister Pavus," the Inquisitor said formally, though there was warmth in his voice. Much to his surprise, Halward had proven a useful ally on a number of fronts while the Inquisition scouts in the field chased down leads on his son. The man was far from the South's idea of friendly; still, Trevelyan rather appreciated his cool demeanor, the distance with which he carried himself while still doing all he was asked. Proper nobility in action: poise, power, and precision all bundled in a dark-eyed, competent man that knew all those things well.

Trevelyan was surprised at the unnamed emotion that tugged at his chest, thankful for the dim lighting in his office.

"My lord Inquisitor," the magister inclined his head slightly, respectfully. He handed Trevelyan a sheaf of documents. "The information you requested on analogous theory as it relates to large-scale magical workings."

"So quickly?" the younger man asked. It was a thick stack; he'd only requested it the previous week.

"Something of an expertise of mine," Halward said it in a tone that broadcasted _no big deal_ but the quirk to his lips belied the truth of it. It was difficult, advanced magical theory that Trevelyan had wanted summarized and he _just so happened_ to be an expert practitioner. The odd jolt of warmth flared more brightly in Trevelyan's chest at the look. The touch of good-natured arrogance transformed Halward's face into something much younger: cocksure and handsome as opposed to formal and world-weary, as he was normally.

"You have my thanks," the Inquisitor muttered honestly, clearing his throat of obstruction and his heart of the strange surge...whatever it was. The magister inclined his head again. "Your timing is quite good, actually. I have a note from one of Leliana's people that has a solid lead for us to follow."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter starts stuff that is not on the DAKM because the new captcha is a demon from the ninth layer of hell


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erimond attempts to teach his plaything some manners; the Inquisition closes in, not knowing what they'll find

A short cord tied the collar around his neck to the pole between his knees, a delight for his captor as it kept Dorian's head down, his legs spread, and his ass up. Fighting was next to impossible between the severeness of the pose and the tightness of his collar; Dorian was stuck wherever Steward placed him. Currently, he was kneeling naked in the center of the mattress, sweat-damp forehead wetting the sheets beneath him. His sensitive areas were on full display and Erimond was taking full advantage, taunting him endlessly with slurs. _What a proper bitch you are when you're bound this way. You look your best like this, little whore, tied in my bed with my property easily within reach. Once we get back where the weather is warmer you will never be allowed clothing. I’ll just keep you at my side, day and night, naked and collared, ready for your mouth and ass to be used at my slightest whim. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, little whore?_

Dorian was being forced through a rather devious line of behavior modification for the fourth day running: Erimond was using a magicked phallus as his implement, forcing Dorian to the brink against his will and waiting for him to beg for release. The younger mage's hands were bound, as was Livius's preference, tightly behind the small of his back. Even with his control pendant the magister preferred his plaything bound and debased: rope did things to the psyche that even blood magic could not and much the same could be said of the servitude of the flesh. He wanted Dorian broken and compliant and so far, he had achieved only some semblance of the former.

"Do you wish to come, my little whore?" Livius asked, raking his hands through his captive’s hair in a mockery of affection. Dorian writhed, drenched in sweat, but shook his head, teeth clenched hard on the cloth in his mouth. Vehement, delirious, nearly overwhelmed, but- "Still fighting," Erimond growled, clear in his distaste. Truly, the training should have been further along by now. He had to get to Adamant soon and he wanted his plaything to be obedient--at least partly--before having to travel with him. The magister flicked a wrist and increased the intensity of the implement humming away inside Dorian's passage, savoring the broken moan it caused. He settled for taunting the bound mage further: light, trailing caresses down his back and along his sides, refining the exquisite mix of pleasure and torture as an outlet for his irritation. Dorian's cock throbbed, ignored between his legs. 

"Things would go so much better for you if you would dispense with your hard-headed foolishness," Erimond said blandly, temper waning as he remembered an aside for the note to Servis he'd begun writing an hour before. He abandoned Dorian's tied form for a quill and his desk across the room, returning to the mundane task even as his captive shivered and shook a few scant feet away. 

A few scribbles on a parchment later he was straightening the desk across the room, shifting from torture to normal routine without pause. "Then again," the magister added with a glance that took in all of his captive's writhing, the bruises around his hips, and the gleam of sweat, "-there are merits, too. I do enjoy breaking obdurate slaves." Dorian pressed his forehead into the mattress, dragging in sharp, short breaths through his nose. Erimond laughed. "The end result is the same either way, foolish thing. Do as you will."  
_______________________

"Are you excited, magister?" Varric asked, reining his small horse up a bit to catch up with the Tevinter. Trevelyan and Bull were just ahead of them, riding side by side and speaking in low tones. Halward gave the dwarf a sidelong look, lips twisted into a terse smile.

"'Excited' is not the word I would use, Master Tethras." The lines around his eyes were taut. "I am eager to punish the miscreants responsible and find my son. I also fear what we may find. It has taken far longer to track them down than I had hoped."

"Hasn't been for lack of trying," Varric muttered, by way of agreement. "You've done a lot of good for the Inquisition in the meanwhile, too, I'm sure they did all they could." Halward's face was grim, handsome features pulled into dark, deep lines.

"It is not the effort, what's done is done. I pray it was enough. We shall see soon enough." 

________________________  
A distant, loud crash echoed in through the shutters. Livius had returned to the bedside and was aggravating his slave when a loud, distant crash echoed in through the shutters. The magister raised an eyebrow and headed for the window, taking in the view outside. A fire had started in one of the barracks and he could see fighting in the streets; Erimond swore blackly when he recognized the blazing eye livery on one of the men's uniforms. Inquisition. _Damnit._ He spared a momentary thought as to whether he had time to bring his plaything with him in his flight.

"All good things must end, I suppose," he mused, gathering a few key things and stuffing them into a small pack, hollering for Errel and Steward. Doing a final sweep of the room he swung back by the bed where Dorian was bound, patting him almost fondly on one quivering thigh. "I am afraid I must entrust you to your luck now, little whore. Perhaps you'll be saved by someone less forgiving than I." The insinuation in the words was sharp as an Antivan dagger, "-or perhaps they'll light the building on fire and spare you the worry. At least you'll go out having fun, hmm?" He set the charm on the vibrator with a wave of his hand and was gone, the door closing with a heavy click behind him.  
_______________

Trevelyan ran a Venatori soldier through, the body sliding from his blade as he spun to bash another. Halward was just behind him, large shards of ice tearing through a score of enemy soldiers further down the street, eyes flashing in time with the bright crystal at the tip of his staff. The magister's face was a study in determined fury, every line in his dark skin drawn taut

"Good day for killin' 'Vints, Boss!" Bull roared, smashing a spellcaster that Pavus had stunned with a Dispel into the dust as Varric's bolt took the man beside him in the eye.

"Really, Tiny? Manners!" the dwarf scolded, catching the scowl on Halward's face as three men down the street erupted in flame. The man had been taut as a drawn bow since he'd heard their scouts had found the purported location Dorian was being held.

"No one said 'Vints can't kill 'Vints, too," Bull replied. "They do that shit at cocktail parties all the time, just saying."

The four of them made short work of the Venatori soldiers and their rebel mage pawns, at least the ones foolish enough to stand against them. The town as a whole was little challenge for a full squad of Inquisition soldiers, the Iron Bull, the Inquisitor, Varric, and their resident magister, enemy players scurrying only to be crushed by soldiers and scouts that had them flanked. Still, it seemed as though they'd missed something.

"Fan out and search all the buildings--be on guard, we haven't found the leader of this pathetic operation yet," Trevelyan snapped, wiping his blade on a dead man's cloak.

_Or the kidnapped Altus,_ Bull thought, but none of them were likely to forget that.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian is left to fend for himself; the Inquisition finally finds their missing mage and Halward doesn't take it well

Dorian could hear heavy footfalls and noises from downstairs and groaned, a sound that was equal parts exasperation and panic. His cock hung heavy and hard between his spread thighs, dark skin dyed darker by his pressing need. Arousal throbbed in his veins, relentless and urgent, pulses that echoed his heartbeat. Dorian tried to let go, to succumb to the thrumming device pressed tortuously against his prostate, but the coiled release stayed in his core, wound too tight and maddeningly uncomfortable. He was all too used to the overwhelming fire in his nerves and the powerless inevitability that came with being bound immobile at the same time, fighting every ounce of his being just to deny Livius what he wanted. It was a daily fight as the magister's plaything.

After weeks of such treatment Dorian could do nothing _but_ fight, unsure of what a normal orgasm even felt like anymore. He didn't--couldn't--let go, stress of many kinds twisting his insides into barbed wire knots and his breath thinned to near-nothingness by the position and his damnable collar.

Unwilling to be found as he was, Dorian steeled himself and, inching awkwardly a bit at a time, tipped himself off the side of the bed. He crashed heavily to the wooden floor on his side, unable to brace for the fall and taking the brunt of it on his shoulder and hip. Uneven planks buckled not at all beneath his weight; neither did his bonds jar loose. The cry that tore free of the mage was half of pain, half of relief as the jolt broke through the built-up heat in his stomach. His muscles spasmed painfully as Dorian's system was shocked into release. He uttered a piteous whine as aftershocks rattled through him, radiating into his limbs like an earthquake's lingering tremors. 

Because Erimond was talented in cruelty the damned vibrator kept buzzing away, the unwanted stimulation like a hot coal as it seared against Dorian's over-sensitized nerves. Ever before, Erimond had removed the charm or dispelled it after he was forced to come. Now, however...Erimond was gone and Dorian was still trapped. Worse, there were footfalls inside the house echoing to him through the old oak floorboards.  
_________________

The four of them climbed the stairs, Trevelyan in the lead. He and Halward swept into an empty room as the Bull, nose flaring, turned to the closed door at the end of the hall. One large hand tested the handle: locked. 

"Let me go first on this one boss," the Qunari advised, dropping one shoulder. At the Inquisitor's nod Bull gave one hard half-step forward and the door caved in, frame splintering into a thousand small shards, the wood groaning loudly as it did so.

At first glance the room was empty but the Qunari knew better. The heavy smells of sweat and sex were prominent even over the waft of burning wood and tar drifting in from outside. Bull headed for the bed as the others swept in behind him, dragging the coverlet off as he saw Dorian's quivering form before his fellows did. Even in profile there was no mistaking the resemblance between the man at his feet to the magister behind him. Bull draped the blanket over the bound figure in the same motion the instant he caught an eyeful of dark skin bared. No blood on him and as such, no reason to show the others every inch of the Tevinter if Bull could help it. He hadn't expected to find the boy naked but he was not exactly surprised, either.

Dorian's eyes were closed, face clenched and turned towards the floor and away from the Bull. He was curled up as far as he was able, trying to hide himself under the bed even though he was bound far too uncomfortably to manage it. Not a great sign. With a twinge of pity, Bull wondered what all had been done to him; whatever the full story was, he suspected they were going to have their hands full with the magister's son.

"This is not what I was expecting," the Inquisitor said gruffly, a few steps too close to avoid seeing the naked man before Bull covered him. "When Leliana said he was captured I assumed he had been tortured, hurt, not..." he fluttered a hand in Dorian's direction, "-all this."

"More than one way to torture, boss," Bull disagreed quietly, expecting that was exactly the case at present, in fact. "He's been put through the ringer. Only upside is that he doesn't look seriously injured." Bull glanced back at the 'Vint in their party, eye questioning. From the doorway Halward's face twisted--impassiveness wrenched into furious pain in an instant--and he turned, brusquely shoving past Varric to get away from the room. The air around him warped, heat lines radiating around him as the smell of lightning lit the air. Trevelyan's face was confused and he made to follow with one last lingering glance at the figure under the blanket.

"I need to go after Halward. Bull, can you...?"

"I'll take care of him boss," the Qunari agreed with a businesslike nod. Varric put his head down with a muttered "Well, shit," before following them out. He didn't need to see it firsthand to guess at what happened and didn't figure Dorian would appreciate the audience.

"Holler if you need me, Tiny," he mumbled, closing the door.

 

The Qunari swept the room once, quickly, rifling through drawers and boxes for anything of note, pocketing all he found. Then it was back to the blanket, which he carefully removed to appraise Dorian more fully. One decent look at the 'vint told Bull he'd been correct about the torture. The adornments around Dorian's neck and limbs were scuffed and well-used. The bruising under those same accessories was dark and deep, much as it was in the mottled markings all over his hips and thighs, and up his arms. There was also a very distinct humming that Bull could hear and he had a nasty feeling he knew _exactly_ where it was coming from.

"Let's get this out of the way," the Qunari said, "I look pretty scary, but I am not your enemy, do you understand?" Damn the way the 'vint's body shook from the pleasure forced on him by the vibrator, lithe muscles rippling under a sheen of sweat. _Overstimulated,_ Bull's mind catalogued, though it took no Ben-Hassrath training to discern that much. The whole visual was distracting, though not to the same measure that it was sickening. Fucking with someone through pleasure was a surefire way to cut deep...whoever had been holding Dorian captive had known that all too well, it seemed. "May I touch you? Nod to show you hear me. We need to get you out of here."

Dorian cracked open an eye, blanched horribly, and slammed his eyes closed again. The bindings tore at his skin as he pushed past the pain, curling in on himself as he shuddered with renewed ferocity, a new wave of tremors radiating through his entire being.

_Qunari._ Qunari. _Oh Maker I didn't think it could be worse. This is worse it's worse it's **so much worse...**_ Dorian's thoughts spiraled into a tail-spin from there, devolving into horror so vehement that he started to choke, throat clenching and seared by bile that had nowhere to go. His lungs tied themselves in knots and forced every bit of air out through his nose as he shook, shook so hard it felt like every muscle was aflame.  
_Maybe they'll kill me. Maker **please** let them kill me._ The alternative...

"Dorian," the Bull said, voice quiet but hard as steel. Mentally he kicked himself: he was unquestionably the best prepared of their group to handle the situation professionally, having dealt with far worse. He had not thought about the fact that Dorian was likely to be terrified at the sight of a Qunari for roughly a thousand different reasons, however. A rather blatant misstep. "I am here to _help_ you, not hurt you--I'm with the Inquisition." The mage startled visibly and opened his eyes. "Put the whole "'Vints and Qunari don't mix" thing on a shelf for the time being," Bull coaxed, voice quiet and earnest; he was almost pleading. "We know you were captured trying to warn us about the rebel mages, Dorian. The Inquisition takes care of its people, that's why we're here: to free you from these assholes. We've been looking for you since we found out." The big man paused, seeing the emotions warring through Dorian's wary silver eyes even as over-taut shoulders quivered beside his ears. "There's no reason for me to lie about that, and I wouldn't know it unless I were truly Inquisition. I can't do anything unless you answer me, though. You're hurting and I don't want to make it worse." The horned man raised his hands palm-up to chest height, placating and submissive as he tried asking once again. "May I touch you?"  
___________________

"Halward!" Trevelyan caught up to the magister outside the house, the older man's cloak billowing behind him like pinioned wings as he stalked down the street. It took the Inquisitor shouting his name twice more for the elder Pavus to stop, his face sliding back into a constructed, emotionless mask as he turned, as though his rapid footfalls had not been scorched into the ground underfoot by the heat and mana radiating off his person. "What's the meaning of this?" 

"I...did not mean to cause alarm Inquisitor," normally the rigid professionalism in his voice was something Trevelyan admired but at the moment, it set his ire alight. Truthfully, the stoicism he’d come to expect from the magister was not fully intact; he could see the muscle of Halward’s jaw jumping, hear the hiss of his breath through clenched teeth. 

"We _found your son_ hardy and hale and your first action was to flee. How are you--"

"Not so hale," Halward interrupted, a chill behind the words. His voice was neither angry nor loud and yet, he radiated fury and upset. Trevelyan could feel the magic in the air around him, driving up the hairs on the back of his neck. "I feared they may have...but I had hope, these many months, that Dorian was being kept as a pawn, as leverage against me, a captive and nothing more. It seems that was not the case. I have failed him." A sigh that seemed to draw from the depths of the magister's darkest recesses escaped him, laden with sorrow and something much more raw. The realization they’d been far too late to spare his son such pain leached the anger from Halward’s posture, driving his proud shoulders to slump forward and the sear of magic on the air to ebb. "I have failed him. This is always to be the way of it, it seems."

"And just what does _that_ mean?" Trevelyan demanded. Halward opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by a shout that pulled both of their eyes to a building a short way down the street. One of the scouts was running towards them.

"Inquisitor!"

"Speak." Trevelyan said coolly, tabling his current conversation for a later date. Much of Halward’s behaviour made little sense and he meant to get to the bottom of it.

"We found something,Your Worship. You're going to want to see this."


	10. Chapter 10

Bull had untied the captive mage and removed the rag gagging him after lifting him circumspectly back up onto the bed. He'd then turned away without a word and Dorian had taken care of removing Erimond's implement himself, letting it drop beside the bed with a dull _thud_ , shuddering as he freed himself of the torment. Bull did not comment. He brought Dorian the washbasin and held it, eye looking at the ceiling, while the younger man cleaned his hands and mopped himself up with a scrap of cloth. The mage startled, twisting slightly away as Bull pulled the blanket up around Dorian's waist.

"I'm going to try to find you some clothes," the big man said quietly as he stepped away to search in the nearby drawers, watching Dorian out of the corner of his eye. The mage's hands shook subtly in his lap, his silver-green eyes wide in contrast against the dark rings underneath them. Sleep deprived, then--not surprising given the implements Bull had found around the room. Underfed, too: cheekbones that were probably perfect in normal life were too pronounced now, sharp and jutting over cheeks that were stubble-rough and slightly concave. The dark leather around his throat seemed to be in war with the Altus’s shoulders: the latter kept trying to hunch downward, to shrink him smaller, but the former did not allow it. 

"Wh--" Dorian began to speak but stopped with a cough, breathing rapid and shallow and trying very hard not to show it. Bull could tell from the fidgeting that the mage felt he needed to salvage...something, though the Ben-Hassrath didn't know what. Not much left in the way of appearances, given how’d they’d met. "What do I call you?"

"The Iron Bull," the Qunari chuckled, tossing the mage what he hoped was an encouraging grin over a shoulder the size of a small mountain. The man was _huge_ , grey skin lying over yards of hard muscle and scarred in more places that Dorian could count. Too tired to be properly afraid (or even properly awed), the mage inexplicably sounded rankled by the large man.

" _The_ Iron Bull?" The lightness in the oxman's tone, the sneer... "Are you lying? Is that why you're laughing at me?" To Dorian's mild surprise Bull's smile was one of gentleness as he approached the bed with a pair of breeches and a loose shirt. There were no shoes but judging by the state of him, the Bull did not expect Dorian to be walking anywhere anytime soon.

"Nah," the big man replied. "Just surprised you asked. I am Qunari after all--not something you 'Vints tend to be fond of."

"There are worse things," the mage whispered; the attempted front failed completely then. Bull didn't disagree, settled instead asking soundless for permission before helping Dorian into the shirt sleeves, assisting the mage so he didn't get strangled by the high collar while he did it. Once Dorian was buttoned into the shirt, though, Bull hesitated. The Altus said nothing as Bull finally reached to pull the blanket back; they fought over it for a moment, Dorian's fingers laced into the fabric and white-knuckled as he held it to his waist.

"Dorian." The command was soft and the tug against the mage's grip was a steady pressure but not really an aggressive one. Much as it had before the use of his name seemed to freeze whatever thoughts were grinding the gears behind Dorian’s dark-rimmed eyes. "Let me help, Dorian. I'm just going to put these on you, okay?" They held the stalemate for seconds that ticked by slowly, so slowly, before the Tevinter gulped once, hard, and let go; he scrunched up his face, unable to watch. Bull nodded, one warm, worn hand easing Dorian back onto his elbows so he could thread the breeches onto his bruise-mottled legs. That full-body shaking had intensified again as the sheet had pulled away but the mage did not fight as Bull made him decent.

Being clothed did little to help still Dorian's quivering but it was enough that it turned his mind to other things--important things, things that gave him something to think about besides himself.

"F-Felix."

"What?" The Bull was doing another sweep of the room, checking drawers and the armoire a final time for anything else of use.

"Th...the other man they were holding captive. He was in the jail. Did...did you find him?" _Is he alive?_ He could not say the last, worrying that even asking aloud would doom him.

"Worry about yourself right now, Dorian," the Iron Bull chided quietly, coming back to the bedside. The mage shook his head and refused to look up at the taller man. "Let's get you out of here and see what the others have found and then we'll look, okay?"


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varric realizes he needs to send some more letters and Dorian is _finally_ free of that Maker-forsaken house.

Varric Tethras had the eyes of a storyteller, that much was true. Some stories took no particular talent to tell, however, and he had retreated a long ways down the hall to afford the Bull and Magister's son a modicum of privacy. His time with the Venatori had clearly not been good to Dorian if the look on the Inquisitor's face had been any tell...Varric dismissed the thought. He'd find out more than he wanted to, he was sure, and all too soon. Few of his contacts in Tevinter had known much of use about Dorian, but those that did had spoken positively of him. The dwarf shook his head, a lament and a dismissal. _One more story of a decent person dragged through shit as the world went to Hell around them all_. The taglines wrote themselves. Varric allowed himself a small sigh and got back to work clearing out the other upstairs rooms. If he was needed, the Qunari would make himself heard.

He was digging through a side room's chest of drawers when the Bull called for him; a short call, just his name, not a panic. Good. He reached back over one shoulder to check Bianca's placement (and perhaps also for luck) and headed back to the room. The door groaned as he eased it open after one pert knock.

The Iron Bull was standing beside a dark-skinned figure on the bed, draping a blanket over a pair of bowed shoulders. It was everything Varric could do to keep the flinch off of his face. Even clothed, the dwarf could tell Dorian Pavus was too skinny by half and was thoroughly bruised in both body and spirit. Greyish eyes flicked up to identify the noise from the door and Varric, ever galant, bowed a little and introduced himself with as much brightness as he could muster.

“Varric Tethras, at your service.” The mage nodded and lowered his eyes again and that time, Varric _did_ flinch. This was not the Dorian Pavus he’d heard from Magister about, nor did he fit what he’d read in his letters. This was no preening peacock, no boisterous Altus who knew how good he was. _Shit._ “Anything I can do for you, kid? Thirsty, maybe?” Hands clutching the blanket at his chest, the Altus nodded, lines of tension lacing even so simple a gesture. Varric advanced to hand him his waterskin with slow, deliberate steps, trying to banish how similar this felt to the time Daisy had taken in a half-starved stray dog from the streets of Lowtown. The creature had emanated wariness, clearly exhausted and yet perpetually prepared to snap. It had taken Daisy weeks to earn its trust. Varric wondered if he’d end up almost losing a hand in this instance, too, and immediately felt bad, no matter how fitting the metaphor.

“Got any health potions with you?” The Iron Bull questioned; Varric pulled one from his belt, levering out the stopper before handing it over. To his mild surprise Tiny was the one who took it from him. “Potion first, then water. You’ll feel better.” Dorian grimaced before nodding, letting Bull steady his hands as he drained the little glass bottle and then half the water skin afterwards, shuddering slightly from the tingling of Elfroot. The movement budged his sleeves up enough that a pair of dark leather cuffs were visible, the skin around them raw from hard struggling. Varric didn’t know him and still, the image made his heart twinge in his chest.

“Thank you,” Dorian offered, coughing behind one hand as the other returned the skin. The dwarf put on his most winning smile and nodded, opening his mouth to say something about how relieved Halward would be to see him.

"Up we go," The Bull's voice was gentle but loud, part rumble and part laugh, as he tucked a second blanket around Dorian and scooped the mage up into his arms. One dark eye caught Varric’s own for only a breath, but it was enough; he swallowed the sentence back down. “You’re on door duty, Varric.”

“That I can do, Tiny.” 

 

Once they had made it outside Varric quickly identified the closed carriage Bull meant to use for the Altus; he directed them towards it, close by and flanked by two Inquisition foot soldiers. Varric saw Halward and Trevelyan advancing on them down the street, flanked by a small group of scouts. Magister's face was scrunched up and tense, his movements jerky. He looked as one might when forced to solve a complex word puzzle, variables upon factors upon conditionals warring in his head until the conflict bled out into his normally schooled expression and flawless countenance. The ground beneath his feet literally _smoked_ as he stalked forward. The Inquisitor, beside him, frowned openly. Varric knew that look, too, as he had seen it on Cassandra’s face more than once: the waspish, impatient glare of a person who was tired of secrets.

The elder Pavus loosed a pained noise as his eyes found the three exiting the house; he altered his path to advance to the Qunari’s side and, assumedly, his son’s.   
______________________

Dorian heard soft footsteps draw near and half considered hiding his face in the blankets the Bull had wrapped around him. It was shameful, being carried like an invalid, but he did not have much choice. He had settled for closing his eyes when they’d left the house that had been his prison. The fresh air--even tainted as it was with the odors of battle, of the potent smell of wood smoke and the metallic fetor of blood--was enough to overwhelm him. He was _outside_.

_In. Out. Breathe, calm down. In. Out._ Dorian settled his errant thoughts on the senses that didn’t require opening his eyes. The smells, a welcome change from the seemingly endless reek of Erimond’s cologne. The sounds: horses moving down the street, the metal on their tack tinkling like small bells; soldiers speaking to one another, low murmurs and the occasional shout, a backdrop to his own breathing, overloud in his ears - all of them welcome variation from Livius barking orders and the disgusting inevitability of his own noises. The warmth across his skin, covered instead of bared, a welcome change from the inner and outer chill that came from forced nudity. The new sensation of impossibly strong arms around him--gentle pressure, not crushing or dragging him somewhere--that was an entirely different change, one that jarred him and that Dorian quickly buried away. 

"Oh, Dorian..." His name in a familiar voice was a whiplash that struck his waning senses back into full alert, a dunk in ice water, fiercely abrupt and disorienting. When he forced his eyelids open he was rewarded with a smile he never thought he’d see again. Dorian forgot his litany, the _in, out_ repetition failing him completely as his chest hitched on a broken sob.

"...Felix?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll have the next bit up as soon as I proof it. No beta and all that. <3!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dorian finds out the answer to his fretful question

Dorian knew his tone was too eager, too earnest to be smart. It was too much to hope for and for a moment, he was sure it was a trick. It was likely the qunari was nothing more than Steward under an illusion and the whole thing a mind game Erimond was playing with some archaic poison and a handful of deceptive spells, something to break his willful streak and finally get him to submit. 

Pale hands clasped around Dorian’s cheeks and the other mage's forehead came to rest against his own, fever-hot and familiar and...no, _no_ , Livius wouldn’t have thought of that, _couldn’t_ know the significance of that gesture. That meant...Dorian let out a full sob then. It _was_ Felix. "Thank the Maker, you're alive." Burning relief flowed through his chest; Dorian pinched his eyes closed against the prickling of tears, hands clenched so hard they ached. 

"I have said the same thing numerous times in my head, these last few moments," Alexius smiled, though the ease in the look was forced. "I'm glad you're alive too, my friend. Let's get you comfortable so we can get the hell out of here." The Bull gestured towards the carriage with a cant of his horns and Felix nodded, shooting a warning glare over his shoulder in the magister's direction. Halward’s chin came up even as he stepped back from sunken, burning eyes in a too-gaunt face. That gaze then fell on Trevelyan.

"You trust this man, Inquisitor?" Felix asked, gesturing at the Bull's back from a few steps behind him. The Inquisitor nodded curtly.

"He has proven a valuable ally on more than one occasion. I trust him as completely as I trust any man," Trevelyan answered, and it was the truth. Being Tevinter, Felix understood the notion: one couldn't trust anyone completely. He dipped his head in the semblance of a bow and walked over to rejoin the Iron Bull, offering him a small bow as well. Nervousness, perhaps, or something deeper, but the two of them vanished around the side of the carriage together. Halward did not move forward and so neither did the Herald, watching the scene with his lips pursed together.

"Why did you not go to him?" Trevelyan asked finally. "All this time, all this effort, just to--"

"It is a long story, Inquisitor." Halward's tone was hard to place; the tension in the lines of his face was not. "Felix and Dorian are very close. Given the state we found him in, it is likely that seeing me would...exacerbate his discomfort. Better to let his friend comfort him for now."

There was a deeper story here, one that Trevelyan was growing increasingly annoyed at not knowing, but they had found the magister's lost son. He could redirect the Inquisition's forces to more prominent tasks and, hopefully, still be able to glean more benefit from his alliance with Halward. Not a bad result, all things told.

 

The big Qunari placed Dorian on one of the padded bench seats, leaving him wrapped up and giving Felix a hand up the stairs after. The two mages settled in the carriage, the former shivering in his blankets and near exhausted with relief. 

"What a pair we make," Alexius muttered as he made himself comfortable on the other bench. Dorian didn't respond. Finally getting out of that wretched house, finding that Felix was alive...the two together was enough to knock him mute with the staggering implications of relative freedom and the overwhelming happiness of finding his last hurried words with Felix had not been his last. The flood of emotions that _weren't_ awful ones pressed the mage down into the darkness clawing at his consciousness and he didn't, for once, fight it. 

The Iron Bull passed in another pair of healing potions, a water skin, and some of their rations, nodding to Felix as he did so. He was gone a handful of moments before he returned with parchment, ink, and a lapdesk at Alexius's request.

"I'll be outside if you need to stop or need something else," the qunari advised. The Blighted man thanked him and settled in to write as the door swung closed. Across from him he heard Dorian's quiet exhales, deep into sleep already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up will be Skyhold: Trevelyan being smitten, Halward being likable, and Dorian's disastrous lack of a useful way to cope with what he went through.
> 
> ...yeah, I'm not 100% on how that's going to go, either.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halward and Felix need to sort some things out

_"You look best like this," Livius cooed, rough undertones in his voice as he rocked into Dorian, who was straddling his lap. "You want so badly to be angry, to be defiant, but you give in to heat the same as any other wanton harlot. Look at you, sweating and flushed and begging for it." Dorian flinched. Erimond glanced pointedly at Dorian's cock, bouncing hard between them and as usual, untouched. "You deny the title despite the evidence. For shame." Erimond raised a hand that glittered with electricity and reached for his catamite's throat. "You will have to be punished for that."_

Dorian lurched upright with a panicked gasp, fingers flying to his collar as he choked for air. He winced as his body hit hardwood, jarring and sudden. The singe of lightning tightening off his muscles was too close, too real to be just a nightmare. _My mark on you, inside you, forever,_ Erimond had threatened once, after beating him bloody and questioning him all night. Hands grasped his shoulders and Dorian shrank back, thrashing as he pulled away. He retreated as far as he could, flinching when his back struck wood. _Have to go, have to run, not tied, maybe I can--_

"Dorian!" Felix hissed in a loud whisper, not wanting the Inquisition people outside the carriage to hear him and get an eyeful of Dorian's panic. Dorian's entire body jerked, once, snapped out of the vividness of the nightmare/memory; the mage blinked, taking in the enclosed carriage he was in, the pillows and blankets littered across the wooden floor, the other man crouched before him. Felix's eyes glittered in the light, his hands held loosely before him, as though he had been reaching for something a moment prior.

_Oh._

"You're back with me, I see," Felix exhaled, corners of his mouth quirking ever so slightly in a smile that was empty of anything but relief. It had been nearly three days and every time Dorian dozed he woke fighting. Heart aching, Felix opened his arms and beckoned Dorian forward, kneeling close by. "Come here then, now that I know you're not going to fry me in your sleep."

"I can't fry anything," Dorian replied quietly, throat still tight. "Damn collar doesn't allow it, as you well know." He acquiesced to Felix's summons, giving the other man time to wrangle the cushions off the bench seats and prepare a makeshift bed of sorts. Felix propped a pillow behind his back and reclined against the side of the carriage before motioning to his fellow mage who answered curling up against him. Something sneered nastily in Dorian's mind at the disgusting submissiveness in the gesture and the weakness that brought it on but at that moment, he could not rally enough energy to care. The only things he could feel strongly enough to concern him were the lingering burn through his collar, the tightness in his chest, and the uncomfortable coolness of the sweat drying on his skin. Grunting slightly in his stiffness he curled his body into a fetal ball as best he could, thankful for the blanket pile that turned the carriage floor into a passable place to rest. "I'm sorry," he added quietly to Felix.

The other man flicked him hard in the shoulder, dragging a coverlet up over him. The warmth of the blanket and the gesture both was calming, freeing a semi-deep breath from its prison within Dorian's ribs. The other mage felt it, apparently, and rubbed the spot he'd flicked.

"I seem to recall _someone_ once casting for an entire day to help me through my pain, after the attack." Felix spoke of his illness so casually, even though it still made Dorian cringe. "That someone should shut up and let me return the favor."

"I'm rather shit at healing. Also it is not a debt, Felix," Dorian argued. He felt the chuckle before he heard Felix loose it, shivering pleasantly as the other man's fingers brushed sweat-damp hair off of his forehead. It was nothing intimate, at least not sexually so, but it was a balm to Dorian after weeks of incessant touches from hands he didn't want near him.

"All the more reason for you to be still and allow me, then." Dorian wanted to argue but the calmness and the proximity of his best friend--his only friend--was too welcome, too grounding to struggle against. He shut his mouth and concentrated on breathing, flushing the images that haunted him from his mind. "Better." Felix praised, running a hand soothingly over Dorian's shoulder. "And to think they say you never listen." He shuffled his desk down onto lap and added, “-and I do think we’ll stay on the floor this time. You keep ending up down here anyways, you bloody heathen.” The barb was without sharpness, flung fondly at a friend.

Dorian drifted off with the ghost of a smile on his lips and Felix's comfortable warmth beside him.  
_______

They rode through the night the first night, taking turns napping in the carriages and stopping to make camp just long enough to pull together a hot meal of stew before continuing on. The next several days and nights followed much the same. Everyone avoided the carriage save the Iron Bull, when the occupants called on him to stop the thing so one of them could use the privy. Halward avoided speaking with anyone at all, riding alone near the back of the column. Trevelyan rode with Varric near the front, grouchy and ready to be back at Skyhold, half-listening as the dwarf told stories.

It was not until they were perhaps two nights from Skyhold that Felix made an appearance out in the camp proper, of course catching Trevelyan just as he'd managed to corner Halward for a discussion. The Herald barely managed avoid growling in irritation.

"Inquisitor, if I may speak to Magister Pavus alone for a moment?" Trevelyan frowned, looking for a moment as though he were going to refuse. Felix noticed this, and responded before he did so. "I do not plan on hashing out anything secretive. Everything I have on the Venatori is yours, Inquisitor, and I owe you and your men my life and Dorian's. The only things I need to discuss with Halward are private, things of a personal nature that will mean nothing for the Inquisition. Anything else you wish to know I will tell you." Trevelyan appeared ready to tell Felix that only _he_ decided what was relevant, but Halward caught his eye. The Herald froze, his words locked in his throat, and found he could do nothing but go along with the magister, who inclined his head once in agreement.

"Very well then," Trevelyan leaned over to Halward's shoulder and whispered once in his ear, "-but do not make it a habit of speaking privately. I understand you know one another, but it looks suspicious. We have something of an abundance of Tevinters," he finished, instantly flinching at the way he’d phrased it.

"Believe me Inquisitor, I understand." Trevelyan nodded, eager to flee, and left them to it, splitting off to discuss rounds with the soldiers. Halward and Felix walked over away from the excitement, away from the carriage, finding a place off by themselves. 

Felix was tense and that gave Halward all the information he needed as to what the topic was going to be. The younger man didn't say a word at first, letting his scowl and the silence speak volumes. The elder of the two took another step back after a long moment of tense stalemate.

"We need to discuss how to tell Dorian you're here," Felix finally said quietly. His shoulders were drawn down into a heavy weariness that the magister found somewhat understandable. Halward pondered how to answer and Felix immediately added "-and I would ask that you speak plainly, Halward. You may have no love for me but I am no magister and this is not the Imperium--we have no need for games." The sigh he released was belabored. "I am worried for Dorian and concerned at what seeing you will do to him. How long has it been since you saw him last?"

“Too long,” was the weary response. Irritation twisted Felix’s features; he did not hesitate to take another step closer and get in Halward’s face.

" _Speak. Plainly._ I haven't the time to leverage anything against you before I die and I give too much of a damn about your son to argue trivialities. Whatever the proper amount of lying in a conversation like this is, cut it to zero." Howard looked at Felix, _really_ looked at him, appraising what he saw before him and weighing the risk of the honesty the younger man was demanding. For a substandard mage who was Blighted and dying, Gereon's son cut an imposing enough figure, features twisted in impatience despite everything else. The lines in his face were too deep and too pronounced for one so young. Finally Halward sighed.

"Apparently the South has had its way with your manners as well." 

"Being the captive of your countrymen in a foreign land do that." Felix agreed, letting some of his anger go with a wry smile as he took Halward's blunt observation as an agreement to be forthright. "Now, about Dorian."

"He will not be happy to see me."

"No, he will not, you're right. You did, however, work with the Inquisition to save us both. Too little too late given what you did to him, but you did rescue us. That should count for something." He rubbed a hand along his neck, easing a knot. " _Should_ count for something, but might not. Livius was not kind to him, Halward."

"Erimond? _Livius Erimond_ was behind this?" 

"The very same," Felix nodded. "I knew he was with the Venatori but he's the one who was running their operations out here. They're headed West, from what I heard. He...he was the one who abused Dorian." He had to stumble a step back because Halward's hands chose that moment to explode in magic, wreathed in bright tongues of fire that licked at the hem of his sleeves. After another moment a whiplash of flame materialized just long enough to burn a tree nearby to cinders in a blink.

Felix did not think he had ever seen Halward do anything emotional beyond frowning especially hard; this kind of temper was akin to screaming out loud.

The magister took a deep breath, then two, and the flames died down. His shoulders heaving, his arms postured aggressively...Felix was stricken at how much Halward looked like Dorian at that moment, energy and power and temper wound into one. The comparison made him sick to his stomach.

"You wished honesty, there you have it,” Halward breathed. “I will incinerate that motherless worm for daring to do this to my son, and to you." The temper faded to something softer and the grimace on his face carved Halward's fine features into something much older, a statue weathered hard by years of punishing forces. "I owe Gereon that much. Is he...does he yet live?"

"I don't know. I doubt it. I have to make it back to Minrathous before the word spreads and the vultures descend, in any case." Halward nodded.

"What do you suggest I do with Dorian?"

"I'll talk to him. Let him know what happened, how you brought the Inquisition after us. I'll be honest with him and we’ll go from there.” Felix looked thoughtful. “You could’ve let Trevelyan kill me in that jail but you didn't. I owe you that much, and I don’t want Dorian hurt. I will do my best." Felix finished, and though many decades of training in the Imperium had taught Halward how easy it was to feign sincerity, he believed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was hard but need for the transition, I think. Any glaring things please let me know as this is unbeta'd.
> 
> Sorry if this chapter sucked!

**Author's Note:**

> Input is always appreciated!


End file.
